


The Gloomy Ones

by Sir_Bedevere



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale really loves Stephen Sondheim, Crowley is not so sure, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gratuitous use of London theatre knowledge, M/M, Most opinions expressed on the subject absolutely do belong to the author, Slow Burn, Theatre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 16:05:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19727041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/pseuds/Sir_Bedevere
Summary: Three Sondheim London premieres that they attend together, one they don't, and one that isn't a premiere at all (but Aziraphale doesn't mind).





	The Gloomy Ones

**Author's Note:**

> My very first Good Omens fic, and an absolute self-indulgent mishmash of my current niche and not so niche interests.

Company 1972 - The Little Things We Do Together

Aziraphale does, with very few exceptions, take in most of the shows that pass through London. It’s just something that he has always done, since there was a London and shows to pass through it. He’s been to theatres that no one else remembers even existed. He’s been to theatres that have been knocked down and rebuilt, then knocked down again. He’s been to every theatre standing in London, and it is thanks to him that some of them are at all - well, he’d argued that using miracles to save some of the grand old dames from bombs during the war was actually in Heaven’s interest, because the humans would need them desperately once the fighting was ended. There’d been a deafening silence from up high about that one, so he’d taken it as approval. Crowley always says it is easier to interpret silence, which is why he strives for it. Aziraphale can’t say that he approves of the method, but it did mean that once the war was over, he could go back to the comfort of taking in a show - or seven. It has been breathtaking to see the pace of creativity that thrived in those years, and seems to show no signs of stopping. 

Which is why he is here, on a rainy evening in 1972, clutching a programme and reacquainting himself with the dear, dusty corners of Her Majesty’s Theatre. This is one of his, one that he saved, and he has never been more pleased about that than now. The news from New York is that young Stephen Sondheim is a genius, and the music he has been creating is beautiful. Well, it is only right then that a beautiful score be housed in such a beautiful theatre.

Aziraphale makes his way to the bar, through the crowd of rather familiar faces. He’d rather like a glass of red wine to sip on whilst he waits for the doors to open. The queue is long, and he is waiting patiently until suddenly the crowd parts and he finds himself propelled towards the bar by a hand on his back. The hand is cool, even through his coat. He knows that hand.

“Hello, my dear,” he says softly.

“Angel. Guessed you’d be here.”

There can’t have been any guessing about it. Only knowing, and Aziraphale says so, as Crowley orders two glasses of red wine without asking what he wants, and shoves one into his hand. 

“What seat are you in?” Crowley asks, as they make their way to a quiet corner. Aziraphale fumbles for his ticket and shows him. Crowley squints and takes out his own, blowing on it. Miraculously, he is now to be sitting next to Aziraphale. 

“So,” Aziraphale says. “How have you been? It must be...”

“Five years, give or take. Yeah, same as usual. How about you?”

Crowley leans against the finely carved pillar, cool as a cucumber, sunglasses in place - as though Aziraphale doesn’t know that idle chatter is a sign that the demon is nervous. 

“Oh yes, I’m very well, thank you. Most excited about this evening, the American album is really rather wonderful, you know.”

Ah, so it would appear that he is nervous as well. Well, Aziraphale can hardly blame himself for that. The last thing he’d said to Crowley had hardly been kind, and they’d had the longest pause in the Arrangement since - well, since the long one. The one where Crowley slept away more years than almost any human lives. 

The room is moving around them, but the humans are keeping well away, even if they don’t know exactly why. They are much more perceptive a species than either Heaven or Hell gives them credit for. 

“Been working much?” Crowley asks. It doesn’t pass Aziraphale by that the demon has already finished his wine. 

“Oh the usual amount, I suppose. I spent some time with NASA, you know, in ‘69. Just to make sure things went smoothly. How about you?”

Crowley grunts.

“Vietnam. For a bit.”

“Ah.”

If Aziraphale didn’t know better, and if Crowley would only remove his glasses, he’d almost say that the demon is ...distressed. 

But then the doors to the auditorium open, and the swell of chatter and excitement from the crowd floods him, and Aziraphale grins. He is most relieved to see Crowley grin back.

“Well, it is quite lovely to see you now, my dear. Shall we?”

*

Sweeney Todd 1980 - Not While I’m Around

“The _demon _barber of Fleet Street. Seems like that might be going a little bit far.”__

__Aziraphale smiles into his programme, and doesn’t reply. Crowley surely has a speech to make, and it would only irk him if he were to interrupt._ _

__“I mean, yeah, the man was no - well, no angel but I know demons and he wasn’t one of them. Severely traumatised and grieving, yeah, he’s got that in common with...some of us...but honestly, some of the ideas these humans come up with.”_ _

__Crowley seems to run out of steam as Aziraphale finally glances up at him from the corner of his eye, and slumps back against the pillar that he was so recently hiding behind._ _

__“I rather think it’s metaphorical, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, closing his programme with a snap and glancing around him. The seats have cleared as people head out for their interval drinks, and he nods his head at the empty one beside him._ _

__Crowley slides into it, long legs bent awkwardly and one of his knees brushing against Aziraphale’s as he arranges himself. It does not pass Aziraphale by that they keep touching even when Crowley has made himself comfortable._ _

__“Who invented theatre seats? Was it me?” Crowley grumbles. He’s asked this before, and knows the answer too.”_ _

__“No, my dear. Very much a product of capitalism.”_ _

__“Ah, but capitalism was mine,” Crowley says with satisfaction. With that, Aziraphale cannot argue._ _

__He also doesn’t argue when Crowley suddenly realises that they are still touching, and pulls his knee away. It could have proved far too much of a distraction._ _

__The auditorium is buzzing. Bit of a strange one this, even for Sondheim, but Aziraphale thinks that he likes it. People don’t write operettas anymore, not like they used to, and he always did love an operetta._ _

__“Did you ever meet him? Old Sweeney?” Crowley presses, still caught up on the subject._ _

__“I can’t say that I had the pleasure.”_ _

__“Ah, well, you didn’t miss much. Stevie has one thing right - the man had no charm at all.”_ _

__Aziraphale doesn’t ask any questions. It hardly takes an enormous amount of brains to work out what Crowley might have been doing with a Victorian mass murderer._ _

__“Where have you been since Christmas?” he asks instead, taking a bag of toffees from his pocket and selecting the largest to pop into his mouth. From force of habit, he holds the bag out to Crowley, who pulls a face and unscrews the lid of a hip flask. He takes a gulp and offers it. Aziraphale takes it. Of course he does. It’s the good rum. He’d recognise it anywhere._ _

__“I’ve been around,” Crowley eventually shrugs._ _

__At that moment, the man who had been occupying the seat Crowley lounges in, returned from the bathroom, shaking his hands dry. The rather handsome man, not that Aziraphale pays attention to that sort of thing._ _

__The man pauses, eying the intruder, and Aziraphale feels him bristling. Before the show had begun they’d shared a most pleasant conversation, the most pleasant he’s had in a long while._ _

__“Excuse me,” the man says, blinking his impossibly long and curly lashes. “I think you’re in my seat.”_ _

__“Don’t think so,” Crowley pushes his sunglasses further up his nose and bares his teeth in what might, in less sophisticated company, be called a scowl. “I’ve been here the whole time, haven’t I, angel?”_ _

__The man gapes, but Aziraphale cannot, in that moment, think. He’s never thought much about how Crowley calls him angel. He _is_ an angel. An angel is what he is, and his name is a bit of a mouthful for general chit chat. But he has never heard Crowley say it like this - possessive and - and _sultry_ \- and - as though he is in fact saying something else entirely. In the pause, the second of silence that hangs in the air between the three of them, Aziraphale feels his entire body flush. And although he feels guilty for it, he nods._ _

__“Yes, you’ve been here the whole time.”_ _

__The man looks confused before his face suddenly clears, and he laughs._ _

__“Oh, I’m sorry! Wrong row.”_ _

__“Quite alright,” Aziraphale says, his voice too high in his own ears. Crowley is busy influencing the man away from them. They watch as he disappears from view, shaking his head, and Crowley licks his lips, chuckling under his breath._ _

__“Next time you want to come along, you only have to ask. I can get two tickets as easily as one,” Aziraphale says, attempting to be severe._ _

__Crowley smirks and takes another pull on his flask. Aziraphale finds that he cannot look away from how the demon’s throat works, and it is many, many, long moments before Aziraphale feels the heat flush from his body._ _

__*_ _

__Follies 1987. Losing My Mind_ _

__Oh God…Satan…Someone. Oh Someone. It’s one of the gloomy ones._ _

__Crowley hates the gloomy ones._ _

__He slumps down in his seat, even further than he has already, and stretches his legs out under the seat in front of him. He hopes that the feeling of his boots almost touching the feet of the woman sitting in it will annoy her just enough for him to feel like this wasn’t a complete waste of an evening._ _

__He wishes that he’d brought his hip flask. And it’s too late to escape now to the bar. Aziraphale just had to go and keep his bloody promise that the next time he went to see Stephen bloody Sondheim, he’d get Crowley a ticket. And Crowley just had to go and bloody turn up. Like a dog called to his owner’s side._ _

__And it’s a _gloomy_ one._ _

__That isn’t saying much, obviously. A lot of Sondheim is gloomy, in its way, although Crowley had genuinely had a good time watching Sweeney Todd. He is glad that Sondheim will probably be one of theirs, when his time comes – Hell gets all of the interesting ones. And won’t that just drive Aziraphale up the wall. He _hates_ that Heaven is the most boring place to ever exist. _ _

__This is a bit much though, this Follies. No wonder it has taken them so long to bring it over to London, if it’s all like this. Crowley has no interest in the difficult marriages of middle aged humans, other than for the basic low level misery that husbands and wives are able to inflict upon one another. Saves him a lot of time that, a lot of energy he’d have to expend on making their lives as miserable as they manage to make each other._ _

__This Ben Stone needs someone to put a boot up his arse._ _

__But Aziraphale is, predictably, enthralled by what’s going on. He’s practically glowing, which is not something he does lightly these days, so he’s getting a lot more out of this than Crowley is. Crowley can feel the warmth coming off him in waves, and he turns his head a fraction to look at Aziraphale’s face. He doesn’t look happy – would anyone be happy watching this? – but he’s appreciating it. He gets it. His face is very close at this angle, as he gazes up at the stage. Close enough to almost touch Crowley’s shoulder. At the thought of that, Crowley feels the warmth around them grow and realises, too late, that maybe it’s actually coming from him._ _

___How embarrassing._ He swallows hard and forces himself to focus on what’s happening on the stage. Anything to take his mind off Aziraphale. Even Follies will do._ _

__The woman, who has a name he is sure, is alone on the stage. And she’s singing, again. Some lament. Crowley listens to the words._ _

___Oh no._ _ _

__Losing my mind, indeed._ _

__Why is this the song that he decided to pay attention to?_ _

___Losing my mind._ _ _

__It’s too much. It’s a bloody love song about not being together, of all the damn things. A love song about being in love and not having it. _Bloody hell and all the bloody saints._ _ _

__Crowley feels as though he could crawl out of his own skin, hearing his own thoughts up there being parroted back at him. For a moment he considers just disappearing, and letting Aziraphale deal with the consequences, having to make the humans forget. It would serve him right, because it’s his fault Crowley is squirming in his chair, an uncomfortable heat under his skin._ _

___Someone, will it never bloody end?_ _ _

__He’s going to do it. He’s going home._ _

__But then Aziraphale reaches over absent-mindedly and puts a hand on Crowley’s leg, to still the restlessness that’s disturbing him. Crowley almost leaps out of his seat at the touch, and puts a hand to his mouth to silence the noise he is sure he was about to make._ _

__He’s trapped, between the words and Aziraphale’s touch, and he could just start screaming to make the feeling go away, if it wouldn’t cause such a scene. It’s an option. But he doesn’t scream. He clenches his jaw and turns his whole head to look at the angel. He’ll scowl the hand away at least. But Aziraphale’s eyes are fixed on the stage, and he has such an odd, vacant look on his face that Crowley is sure he’s somewhere else far away in his head as well. He’s definitely not noticed the torture he’s inflicting on Crowley, and that makes it easier to bear, in a way._ _

__Crowley has borne worse._ _

__And the woman at least has stopped singing, finally. The song only lasted seventeen hours, or so it seemed._ _

__Sometime in the next song, Aziraphale takes his hand away and Crowley breathes._ _

__He _hates_ the gloomy ones. _ _

__*_ _

__Sunday in the Park with George 1990. We Do Not Belong Together_ _

__

__The only theatre in London that Crowley had any influence over is the National; not because he was busy tempting Laurence Olivier at the time of building but rather more indirectly, as the dubious inventor of brutalist architecture. Aziraphale, for his part, rather likes that about the place. He enjoys the walk over the river from Soho, and the little cafe attached to the building that serves lovely pastries, and if the ugly grey stone happens to remind him of someone, well that’s all the better._ _

__He offered Crowley a ticket for this one, but after Follies, the demon is rather ‘over Sondheim’, as he would say. Aziraphale should have known he’d get bored eventually- he never had been keen on the theatre, as a whole - but he’d rather been relying on Crowley’s company. It will be strange to attend one of these alone now._ _

__He forgets that for a little while at least, as he circles the building on a slow stroll. The nervous energy of the place is like metal in the air and he can taste it, so he does his circuits and hopes that his presence will absorb some of the nerves and exude some peace in its place. He’s very good at this sort of thing, and if he can’t use it in his arsenal as a patron of the arts then what is he even doing on Earth? That’s what he’d tell Gabriel, anyway, if Gabriel cared to ask. Or Uriel. Or - well, any of them really. Aziraphale hasn’t seen another angel since...well, it must be since the war. The human one. The _second_ human one. It had been messy, for sure, and he can’t exactly blame them for staying away. And it isn’t like he’s been to visit Heaven either. He's just been submitting his reports and keeping to himself, mostly. Usually, he would welcome being left alone. But Crowley hasn’t been about much since the war either, since _that_ night in the church actually, and Aziraphale has been finding the days and nights very long. _ _

__Ah well. Before long, Gabriel will be back down here causing his usual trouble, getting in the way, and Crowley – well, Crowley will come around. He always does in the end. It’s been a trying time for him, of late. Lots of overseas assignments. They find it harder to trade those ones off, so Crowley has been doing most of them himself. And Aziraphale just has to wait._ _

__He knows that he just has to wait._ _

__It is a warm evening, for March, and he takes another turn around the building, runs a hand gently over the stone and feels the whole place sigh deeply beneath his touch. A very nervous building this one, always trying to live up to the history that the rest of the London theatre circuit enjoys, desperate to fit in. It is rather like the demon who helped to design it. They have it in common, the need to be liked. It’s an odd thing for a theatre to feel, and even stranger for a demon, but then Crowley has always been a strange one. That’s rather what Aziraphale loves – likes about him._ _

__“I thought I would find you here, Principality Aziraphale.”_ _

__He can’t help the groan that rumbles up his throat, although he does a fairly good job of containing it. Aziraphale leans his forehead against the wall, takes a deeply unnecessary but calming breath, and turns around, with what he hopes is a convincing smile on his face. Speak of the devil, so the humans say._ _

__“Gabriel,” he says. “What a lovely surprise. I was only thinking of you earlier.”_ _

__Gabriel grins back at him with his sharp teeth, and holds out a hand. Against his better judgement, Aziraphale shakes it._ _

__“This is an extremely ugly building,” Gabriel says, looking around him. Aziraphale bristles at the words. It is ugly, but he’d never say it out loud. Not where the theatre can hear him._ _

__“It’s stylistic,” Aziraphale shrugs. “It’s of its time.”_ _

__“Mmm. Come. Walk with me.”_ _

__That is absolutely the last thing that he wants to do, but he falls into step anyway. Gabriel’s eyes are fixed on the humans who have begun to pour in the doors. Aziraphale longs to be among them, and makes a show of taking his ticket from his pocket and inspecting it._ _

__“Somewhere to be?”_ _

__“Well, yes. One does come to the theatre for a reason, generally.”_ _

__“This won’t take long. We haven’t seen you in some time, Aziraphale.”_ _

__“But you’ve been getting my reports?”_ _

__“Oh yes. We have.”_ _

__Gabriel’s voice has a strange edge to it, which is odd for a being who never for a moment hides what he is thinking, no matter who he is addressing. Aziraphale tries to look at him from the corner of his eye, but fails as Gabriel twists out of his field of vision and walks towards the river. He wants Aziraphale to follow him, like a dog at his heels._ _

__Which he does. Some habits are hard to shake._ _

__“Is there something wrong with the reports?” he asks, watching Gabriel’s large hands flex on the railings that run along the riverside._ _

__“No. It’s you we’re worried about.”_ _

__Gabriel would almost be convincing, if he could muster any emotion to his face or his voice._ _

__“You’ve been distracted, Aziraphale. I can tell. I've been reading your reports for thousands of years and something's up. What’s on your mind, buddy?”_ _

___Buddy._ _ _

__“I can assure you, I’m quite well, thank you. It’s been – a busy few decades. A big century for the humans. Lots for me to do. You give me the orders to do them, you may recall.”_ _

__Gabriel has eyes like an animal, like the very first lion that Aziraphale watched stalking the Garden, like the wolf who walked safely from Noah’s ark, like the snake – no, not like a snake. He's a vicious predator. When he turns those eyes on Aziraphale, he feels as though he knows it all. He knows everything, and he’s here because this is the end. The game is up._ _

__“Well, you may have been busy, my friend. But you will report to headquarters more often, in future, or we will find a reason to come back down here and check out what you’re really doing with your time. _Michael_ thinks that you’re up to something. She’s the one who suggested I come and pay you a visit.”_ _

__"Michael?" Aziraphale squeaks._ _

__Gabriel is watching him keenly still, and Aziraphale isn't sure if bringing up Michael's name is a threat or a warning. Maybe it's both. Gabriel has always resented that his oldest sister is the one at Her right hand._ _

__"She checks in sometimes," Gabriel shrugs. "I don't know what she was looking for."_ _

__Aziraphale looks down to see that his hands are wrapped so tightly around the railings that his knuckles are white. He concentrates on loosening them, on breathing carefully, and making sure that his face betrays absolutely nothing._ _

__There’s too much to lose, these days._ _

__“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I will check in more often, if you wish it. You only had to ask, you know. No need to come down here and treat me like a criminal.”_ _

__Aziraphale’s voice sounds much calmer than it has any right to, but Gabriel laughs suddenly, the last thing Aziraphale was expecting him to do, and grabs his shoulder, holding it far too tight._ _

__“Michael is watching you,” he hisses in Aziraphale’s ear, and then he is gone._ _

__Aziraphale makes it all the way into the theatre and up to the bar before his legs almost give way beneath him. Crowley could easily have been here tonight. If he’d wanted to come, Aziraphale would have got him a ticket and Gabriel would have _seen_ them. _ _

__God._ _

__It was too close. Too close. _Too much.__ _

__Aziraphale orders a whisky and a glass of wine, drinks them both, and orders some more. His hands are shaking. He’s been too careless, forgot that they could turn up at any time. Crowley could have been here, sharing a drink and God, the things that will happen to him if Hell finds out that he has been fraternising with an angel. The things that they will _do _to him. Aziraphale can’t bear to even let his thoughts linger there for a moment. They need to be more careful. They need to - slow down. Whatever is happening between the two of them – Aziraphale doesn’t really understand it, only knows it makes Crowley hurt and tired. But whatever it is, they need to slow down.___ _

____Aziraphale doesn’t stay to watch the show. It wouldn’t be fair on anyone, actor and audience member alike, to have to sit near him when he is in such a state. Besides, he won’t enjoy the show now, knowing what he knows._ _ _ _

____Instead he heads hastily back to Soho, so desperate to be back in the shop that he almost throws caution to the wind and miracles himself there just so he will feel less like he’s being watched. But he doesn’t, and he doesn’t run either. If they are watching, he needs to be calm._ _ _ _

____He can't tell what Gabriel thinks, but if they knew of the Arrangement, there would be no warnings, no threats. So they are safe in that regard. But for Michael to have been checking up...she must have a reason for sending her attack dog to his work, or else she wouldn’t get involved. She has had no interest in Earth since – since the boy Jesus, probably. That was the last time she came anywhere near the place, and Aziraphale shivers at the memory of that poor boy’s pleas – in his darkest moments, he has wondered if worrying about Crowley and Hell is ignoring the very real things that Heaven is also capable of._ _ _ _

____Soho is busy with evening diners and strollers, and as he walks amongst them, Aziraphale lets out a breath. He is safer here, with these people around him._ _ _ _

____And then, outside the shop. Oh no._ _ _ _

____“Shit,” he says, under his breath, because the occasion for swearing must surely be now. It’s the Bentley, and leaning on the front of it, smoking one of his disgusting cigarettes and sunning himself, is Crowley._ _ _ _

____“Angel!” Crowley says, as Aziraphale puts his head down and tries to hurry past him. “Angel, you’re back early.”_ _ _ _

____“Hmm? Oh yes, yes.” Aziraphale cannot ignore him. “What are you doing here? You know I was going out.”_ _ _ _

____“Thought I’d wait for you,” Crowley shrugs. “Didn’t have anything better to do this evening.”_ _ _ _

____His eyes are hidden behind his glasses as usual, but Aziraphale can feel them burning into him. It always feels like burning these days, when Crowley is near him. And at the thought of burning, he can’t stand it any longer. Gabriel could be watching, even now._ _ _ _

____“Well, I’m – I’m back early because I don’t feel myself. I think I’ll have an early – an early night.”_ _ _ _

____“You don’t sleep, Aziraphale,” Crowley says lightly – too lightly – grinding his cigarette butt into the pavement. “What’s happened? You’re being very – odd. Let’s go in, shall we?”_ _ _ _

____“I just want to be alone, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, aware of the note of hysteria he can hear in his own voice. “Please. Just go.”_ _ _ _

____Crowley cocks his head, a frown creasing his face between his eyebrows. It is odd. Aziraphale knows it is, that usually he’d be so glad for Crowley’s company. He’s never turned him away. But now, in his head – Jesus is sobbing for his mother, the children of Mesopotamia are weeping and Crowley – oh, _Crowley is screaming.__ _ _ _

____“Angel-”_ _ _ _

____“GO!” Aziraphale shouts, then presses a hand to his mouth. “Go away, Crowley. I can’t see you tonight. Please.”_ _ _ _

____He doesn’t stay to see Crowley’s face. He can’t bear it. But he hears the door to the Bentley slam, and the blessed sound of it speeding up the street, and he knows Crowley is safe. For tonight at least, he is safe._ _ _ _

____*_ _ _ _

____Sunday In The Park With George 2020. Move On._ _ _ _

____“Angel!” Crowley is yelling up the stairs. “If we don’t leave right now, we’re going to be late.”_ _ _ _

____"Coming, my dear!" Aziraphale calls, but of course, he doesn't, for another moment or two. Crowley sighs and turns to the mirror, skimming a hand over his freshly cut hair. He hasn't worn it this long in a while, but Aziraphale happened to mention that he liked it a bit longer and Crowley is helpless to resist him pretty much anything._ _ _ _

____When Aziraphale appears, he is wearing a new bow tie, one that Crowley got for him. He’s been unsure of the polka dot print – it’s a little jazzy for him, he says - but obviously he's decided to give it a go._ _ _ _

____“You decided to wear it,” Crowley grins, swinging his sunglasses between his fingers. Aziraphale blushes a little under the scrutiny, but nods._ _ _ _

____“Of course,” he says, allowing Crowley to put an arm around his waist. “But I would feel much surer of the choice if I knew where we were going.”_ _ _ _

____“It’s a surprise, Angel. That means you shut up and let me be the boss for once.”_ _ _ _

____Aziraphale leans into the touch and presses his lips to Crowley’s ear. His breath his hot as he murmurs, “Well, just this once. I suppose.”_ _ _ _

____Crowley shivers and squeezes his hip, then slips his sunglasses on._ _ _ _

____“I’ll make the most of it. Let’s go.”_ _ _ _

____They walk hand in hand through Soho, and no one gives them a second glance. No one _cares_ , and isn’t the most miraculous thing of all? They’ve saved the world – well, young Adam has saved the world – and no one cares about them anymore. The humans, well they never have. But Heaven and Hell. They just don’t care. And Crowley can hold Aziraphale’s hand like this. _ _ _ _

____The late afternoon sun is shining, and Crowley steers them towards Covent Garden. He's got a place for dinner in mind, one they don't frequent too much as it's hardly the Ritz, and Aziraphale on the whole prefers the finer things. But it's hard for even the angel to argue when the food is this good._ _ _ _

____“Are you taking me for hamburgers?” Aziraphale bounces on his toes as they wait at the crossing. “What a lovely surprise!”_ _ _ _

____Crowley gives a long suffering sigh and squeezes his hand._ _ _ _

____“Burgers, yes. But that’s not the surprise. You have to be patient.”_ _ _ _

____They’re so good that even Crowley eats one, and insists on a large portion of spicy potato fries to share. Aziraphale lights up as he tucks a napkin into his collar and watches Crowley eat. The angel has mentioned before that he loves to see Crowley actually enjoy food, and Crowley finds lately that pleasing him is not a chore in the slightest._ _ _ _

____Then they resume their walk in the sunshine, heading towards the river, and out onto a large street that runs parallel to the water. Aziraphale is quiet now, happy with his choice of dinner spot, no doubt, and Crowley doesn’t say anything either as they come to a stop. Instead he looks pointedly at a building across the road, and Aziraphale glances too._ _ _ _

____Then he looks again. Crowley watches him keenly._ _ _ _

____“Crowley, my dear. Is that-”_ _ _ _

____“Yep. That’s it.”_ _ _ _

____Across the road is the Savoy Theatre. The Savoy Theatre that is showing –_ _ _ _

____“Sunday in the Park with George. Oh, Crowley. You remembered.”_ _ _ _

____Aziraphale hasn’t yet let go of his hand, and he turns to look at Crowley. The angel is practically glowing, a huge grin on his face, and Crowley feels a warmth settle in his chest so large that it threatens to spill out of him._ _ _ _

____“This is the one you missed out on, right?" he says casually, as though he doesn't already absolutely know for sure. "That day.”_ _ _ _

____Crowley still remembers, thirty years later, how distressed Aziraphale had been that day, and how two days later the angel had phoned him to explain his behaviour and asked him round for tea. Crowley had sobered up and gone immediately, and in many ways it had been forgotten. But not in this one._ _ _ _

____“Oh, my dear," Aziraphale breathes. "Thank you.”_ _ _ _

____Crowley opens his arms, and Aziraphale comes to him immediately. The warmth in Crowley's chest burns hot and fierce, and it takes a moment before he realises that the shoulder of his jacket feels damp all of a sudden. Oh no. Aziraphale is crying. This is still new to Crowley - not the concept of crying but the fact that sometimes it can be done though happiness rather than sorrow. He bring his hand up and gently cradles the back of Aziraphale's head, pressing his face into his shoulder so that he can cry with no one seeing him._ _ _ _

____“If I’d known you’d do this here, I’d have told you at home,” Crowley says helplessly, stroking Aziraphale’s soft hair through his fingers. "It's not the premiere, I know, but you missed the boat on that one, I'm afraid."_ _ _ _

____“No, no,” Aziraphale shakes his head, and pulls his face away. “This is perfect. I wouldn’t want it any other way.”_ _ _ _

____Crowley plucks Aziraphale’s pocket square himself, and gently wipes at his cheeks and eyes. In the middle of the street, not giving a toss who is watching, the demon dries the angel’s tears. And then he kisses him, because he can do that too._ _ _ _

____“Shall we then?” Crowley says softly, when Aziraphale is still too overwhelmed to speak. “Don’t want to be those annoying people who turn up late for a middle of the row seat.”_ _ _ _

____Aziraphale chuckles, which of course was the aim, and takes Crowley's offered arm. And as they cross the road to join the crowd of excited theatre goers, Crowley thinks that maybe he might bring himself to like Sondheim after all._ _ _ _


End file.
